Out of these living scars, we are born anew, and borne up upon these ancient winds.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

Texture of Her Secrets

The shapes of animalsmove against her skinin the dim light, theforest reaching outto touch the essence,sick with need likeI was then, sick withwant for the textureof her secrets beneathmy palm.

With wind susurrating,the quiet mutter of theaspens above, the plaintivecall of one bird for another—one who doesn’t ever answer,but only maintains his hungerin silence, and the squirrelswho are forever scolding,now struck dumb bywhat she is and what shehas been.

There is no asking voice,no questions chiding medeep into nights of purplecity glow, the knowingnature of my loss soclear, like animal shapesas they move upon herskin, and how all theleaves of every bushlean toward her asshe passes.